


Russian Tricolor

by Nemamka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Character Study, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, I'm Sorry, Long Hair, M/M, Young Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemamka/pseuds/Nemamka
Summary: A mirror can be a looking glass. A person can be a mirror.





	Russian Tricolor

Blood.

 

 

 

 

_What_ …

 

 

 

 

There’s… there’s _blood_.

 

 

 

 

_Oh no_.

 

 

 

 

It’s too…

 

 

 

 

It’s so…

 

 

 

 

_Red_.

 

 

 

 

His hand is shaking.

 

 

 

 

It won’t stop.

 

 

 

 

_Oh no_ …

 

 

 

 

There’s pain, too, but it’s faint.

 

 

 

 

_He_ is shaking. Breathing fast, and shallow.

 

 

 

 

_No…_

 

 

 

 

“Y…”

 

 

 

 

He can’t look away.

 

 

 

 

It’s dripping.

 

 

 

 

The little drops fall on the strayed strands like evil pearls onto feathery cushions.

 

 

 

 

They hover for a moment, settle—then soak in.

 

 

 

 

_No!_

 

 

 

 

Down the drain the red stream goes.

 

 

 

 

“Y... Yakov…”

 

 

 

 

He realizes he’s whimpering, but no one comes.

 

 

 

 

He can’t look away.

 

 

 

 

He can’t look up from his hand because the minute he does, he’ll…

 

 

 

 

A shard of glass falls into the sink with a startling clink.

 

 

 

 

... see his reflection.

 

 

 

 

_Blue_.

 

 

 

 

A flash of cold.

 

 

 

 

Contrast to the scene below.

 

 

 

 

A lie.

 

 

 

 

And the mirror is a net.

 

 

 

 

A spider net that holds all his broken parts captive.

 

 

 

 

One slice right ahead.

 

 

 

 

His eyes—scared wide open. He’s seen them so many times he can’t recognize what they tell him anymore. They say they speak volumes. They hold the soul and all that. Well, where is it then?

 

 

 

 

Another slice, just below.

 

 

 

 

His lips—chapped dry and pale. He’s smiled with them so many times against his will he can’t tell what else they are good for anymore. They say he speaks too little. He’s gotten secretive, too diplomatic. Well, why do they still keep poking?

 

 

 

 

Another slice, bigger, round counter-clockwise.

 

 

 

 

His skin—an empty canvas far from _home_. He’s taken care of it like a temple no one ever visits. Especially not himself. Yet they _worship_ , they say he’s beautiful. Perfect, like a marble statue. But who the hell is _he_?

 

 

 

 

Why do they pretend to know when the Prince himself is a pretender?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And

there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hole in the middle.

 

 

 

 

The epicenter of the earthquake not happening.

 

 

 

 

The point to which each dagger of glass leads.

 

 

 

 

The point where he has to realize.

 

 

 

 

He wakes, just a little, when his mask breaks.

 

 

 

 

But his shackles don’t necessarily break _with it_.

 

 

 

 

“ _Vitya!_ ”

 

 

 

 

They never have, not once.

 

 

 

 

“Vitya, what have you done…”

 

 

 

 

They bind his knuckles, they wash the sink, they fix his hair.

 

 

 

 

They change the mirror.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t look into the new one for weeks.

 

 

 

 

His face’s stayed the same, after all.

 

 

 

 

He competes the next day.

 

 

 

 

There’s a hand on his shoulder and a gruff voice in his ear says, “Russia is proud of you, son.”

 

 

 

 

He nods, and when he raises his head he’s grinning again for the cameras.

 

 

 

 

The ice is waiting.

 

 

 

 

Laid out before him, his future—

 

 

 

 

_White_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gold.

 

 

 

 

_Inhale_.

 

 

 

 

There’s gold.

 

 

 

 

_Exhale_.

 

 

 

 

It’s glinting.

 

 

 

 

He raises his hand, and neither him nor his reflection waver.

 

 

 

 

No scars of his past remain.

 

 

 

 

His heart’s beating fast as hell, though.

 

 

 

 

_Yes_.

 

 

 

 

He looks up, and scolds himself for biting his lips.

 

 

 

 

Everything’s okay.

 

 

 

 

The mirror is _just_.

 

 

 

 

A friend showing him how far he’s gotten.

 

 

 

 

Whole and sure and full of excitement and that inexplicable warmth that’s the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to him and happy and ready and…

 

 

 

 

And _there_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Awake, alert, aware, unstoppably… _free_.

 

 

 

 

“ _Vitya!_ ”

 

 

 

 

He’ll always be fine now.

 

 

 

 

“Vitya, what are you… Come on, it’s your cue!”

 

 

 

 

He wipes his hand, he leaves the sink, and fixes his hair.

 

 

 

 

Mirrors never change.

 

 

 

 

Only how you look at them.

 

 

 

 

His face is what’s different now, after all.

 

 

 

 

He became someone else that day and he becomes someone _else’s_ today.

 

 

 

 

There’s an arm around his elbow leading him, and cheerful voices all around.

 

 

 

 

He can’t make sense of them because he’s already crying.

 

 

 

 

The carpet is red and he has a bouquet of his favorite blue roses but that’s all just coincidence.

 

 

 

 

No reason to see anything deep into it.

 

 

 

 

What really matters, what will always matter, is that smile ten steps ahead.

 

 

 

 

His future is waiting. 

 

 

 

 

Standing before him, his life and love.

 

 

 

 

A mirror that he’ll never break.

 

 

 

 

His true colors.

 

 

 

 

In all white.


End file.
